Beneath Beautiful (16 page)

“We'll take it,” Marianne said to the assistant, handing over a credit card.

Cassie turned to her as fast as humanly possible in a gown like this. “But can't we rent it?”

“We can,” Marianne told her. “But you need to keep it. It's too perfect.”

“But . . .” Cassie began to argue.

“No, really, we'll take it.” Marianne nodded at the assistant once more. “Thank you.”

When the assistant had gone, she guided Cassie back to her changing room by the elbow. “Think of it as a souvenir. It will be lovely for you to have something . . .” She paused here, considering her words. “. . . afterwards”.

Cassie watched her closely, wondering if this were a warning of some sorts.

And perhaps Marianne picked up on this, because she quickly spoke again. “I don't mean anything bad by that, but it really is a fantastic dress, and you should have something to remember this time by. Cameron isn't very good at gifts, and remembering birthdays and holidays, and things like that. So think of it as a simple thank you.”

“Well,” Cassie said. “If you're sure.”

“I'm very sure. Now, let's find you some shoes and a clutch.”

“Y
ou're awfully clever, darling, as my English friends would say.” Cameron smiled as Cassie revealed her outfit later that evening in the void of the studio entrance.

“You know—” Usually a flats girl, Cassie reminded herself to remain steady on her heels, “—that's exactly what my sister would say.” Her entire body felt alien to her, from her hair, swept up in a soft chignon, and lips, painted a waxy bright red, down to her feet, encased in those scarily high heels

“See? But, really,” Cameron approached her now, “you do look stunning.” He kissed her on the cheek, lingering in her personal space.

“Thank you. So do you,” Cassie replied. And it was true; he did. Cameron was dressed in his own peculiar way, as usual, this evening in a blacker than black bowtie, plus a dinner suit (a tuxedo, they called it here)—complete with not a white, but a black dress shirt.

“Should we?” Cameron offered her his arm.

“One moment.” She reached out and adjusted his bowtie.

He raised an eyebrow as she did so. “It was fine.”

“I know,” she said, meeting his gaze. “But it's what you do, isn't it?”

“A
re you sure there won't be any photographers?” Cassie peered out the window of the town car as they pulled up outside a non-descript building back on the Upper West Side. She'd been pleased to find out that's where they were headed as at least this way, she could take her shoes off and run for her life back to Alys's if need be.

“Most definitely no media,” Cameron answered her, sitting forward in his seat slightly as they readied to exit the car. “Some of Plum's investors wouldn't be keen, I'm sure, to advertise the fact that they're investing in her work. Not with all that fuss with the animal liberationists a few years back.”

“Ah, yes. I see.” Cassie nodded, remembering that Plum and one of her investors had been doused with blood outside one of her exhibitions.

“That's why she holds these very exclusive functions now.”

Cassie wondered if Cameron was an investor himself, or was he here in the capacity of ex-whatever-he-was and a fellow modern artist, though she didn't want to ask. “There may be a photographer or two here in an official capacity, but, like I said, no media.”

“Well, that's good then.” Cassie took a deep breath, worried about there being any photographers at all. Still, there was no point in making a fuss. She had chosen to do this—not just come tonight, but to sit for Cameron. There was an inherent risk, and she knew this full well.

“Ready?” Cameron glanced at her.

“Yes,” she said, brightly, thinking,
No, not at all
.

Amazingly, however, the journey from the car to the inner sanctum of the building was uneventful, and Cassie was even beginning to feel reasonably adept at walking in her heels.

“Just the man I've been waiting for.” Plum approached them as they were quickly ushered inside another room where people were milling around, drinks in hands. “I have more than several people waiting to talk to you. And Cassandra,” she turned to Cassie, stepping forward to kiss her on both cheeks, “lovely to see you again. Amazing dress. Vivienne Westwood. Very patriotic of you.”

“Thank you.” Cassie attempted to keep her voice even, though all she could think about, of course, was Plum and her sister. “You look beautiful,” she told Plum in reply. And she did. On anyone else, black would be a safe choice, but on Plum, with her dark hair and deep red lips, it was the only choice.

“I'm afraid I may have to steal Cameron away for a moment or two.” Plum smiled a smile at her that Cassie struggled to figure out. Was she being genuine? It was hard to tell. “I'd suggest you go and take a look.” She gestured toward the other end of the room. “Everyone's always shy at first, but it will become busy later on.”

Standing slightly behind Plum's right shoulder, Cameron caught her eye and shook his head slightly. “Maybe you should have a walk around. Meet some people,” he suggested, firmly. “I won't be long.”

Cassie watched him carefully, trying to establish exactly what was going on.

“Everything all right?” Plum was on to them both in a second.

“Of course.” Cameron nodded. “Now, who am I speaking to first?”

“This way.” Plum started off and, as she did so, Cameron took the opportunity to lean in to Cassie's ear as he passed by.

“Wait until I get back,” he said, his breath hot on her ear.

Sensing all was not right Plum turned back, her smooth brow creased, and Cameron moved off once more.

With a slight shrug, Cassie looked around her for a moment, and on locating the bar, headed for it, weaving her way through the crowd of elegantly dressed people. As their eyes skated over her, her dress felt like it was getting tighter by the minute. “A French martini, please,” she told the bartender the moment she was within earshot.

“Good choice,” the man standing beside her said, introducing himself as Michael and a surname that Cassie didn't quite catch. “I work for Plum.”

Cassie nodded. “Cassie Tavington.” She held out her hand.

“Ah, so you're Cassandra! Marianne told me you'd be accompanying Cameron this evening.”

Cassie gave him a shrewd look. “I haven't been Cassandra since I scribbled on the carpet underneath my father's desk with my crayons.”

Michael laughed. “Cassie, then.”

Cassie smiled back at him.

“So, have you seen the installation yet?” Michael nodded toward the exhibition. “Are you familiar with Plum's work?”

“I haven't, no, but I am familiar with her work. We went to university together. In a way.”

“You'll know an installation is a new venture for Plum.”

Cassie paused slightly. “And is she using the same materials?” She tried very hard to give the impression that this would be a good thing.

“Oh, yes.” Michael nodded. “There's information about the piece on the wall that you must read before you enter, but it's a very personal experience. Really, I think this is going to be her best exhibition yet.”

Cassie nodded, thinking as nice as Michael seemed, of course he was going to say this—he was on the payroll. “Well, I'm looking forward to it,” she said as the bartender finally placed her drink in front of her. She couldn't take a sip fast enough. The chilled glass was cold in her hand, and the sweet liquid burned down her throat. She had to stop herself from downing the thing in one go.

“Plum tells me you're sitting for Cameron at the moment,” Michael continued.

“Mmm . . .” Cassie said, in a non-committal fashion. A sign that read,
let's not talk about this
would have been handy.

But Michael pressed on. “Any hints? I had a brief glimpse of Monica once. Amazing piece of work. I'm very much looking forward to his next exhibition.”

“I'm not really sure how much I'm supposed to say,” Cassie replied, though the truth was she was beginning to think even she had minimal knowledge of what the art she was sitting for would finally look like. Uncomfortable with her conversational partner, her martini was disappearing spectacularly quickly.

“Oh, I don't think there are many secrets between Plum and Cameron.” Michael smiled a knowing smile, and once more today, Cassie found a flare of anger lit inside her, though she wasn't entirely sure what made her more angry—the fact that Michael was suggesting there was still something between Plum and Cameron, or the fact that she cared that there might be.

“Then I suppose Plum will already know all about it.” Cassie smiled sweetly, polishing off her drink way too fast. “It was lovely to talk,” she continued, “but I really must . . .”

“Here, before you go.” Michael signaled to the bartender, who brought over a tray of drinks, and offered them to Cassie. She took the closest one, which looked to be a champagne cocktail, though she didn't really care at this point, as long as it was alcoholic and already poured into a glass.

“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand quickly, before slipping away.

Not knowing anyone, Cassie began to make the trek—and it was a trek in the tight, sheath of a dress—toward Plum's installation. She was stopped twice along the way. Once by someone who mistook her for someone else, but they then had a lovely talk anyway, and once by an older, Englishman and his wife, who correctly picked her dress out as being a Vivienne Westwood. Cassie spoke to the pair for quite some time, though they both, as Oxford graduates, ribbed her mercilessly, of course. As they chatted, her glass somehow seemed to magically replenish itself yet again.

Just as Cassie was about to excuse herself and continue on her way, Michael began to circulate, warning people that the installation would soon become busier, and that if they cared to experience it as it should be experienced, the time was now. “I believe I'll take my turn,” she told the couple.

Taking a deep breath, she turned away from the couple and Michael, and made her way directly toward it.

T
he installation, in its own private room, loomed large under a spotlight. At first, Cassie let her eyes only skate over its façade, scared that she might have a similar reaction to the other day.
Wait until I get back
, Cameron had said, and now she knew why. Perhaps the several drinks had given her courage, however. Because other than feeling rather tipsy, she found herself otherwise fine, and gave herself the go-ahead to inspect the installation further.

The installation was, as Michael had mentioned, comprised of the same materials—Plum's ever-present mix of copper, resin and blood, but this was not her usual large, solid resin rectangular block stood against the wall, or rested upon the floor, but an interactive piece, with four walls and a ceiling, in which the viewer was expected to walk inside and spend a few minutes contemplating the artwork.

An assistant approached and handed Cassie a sheet of laminated paper, which explained the artist's vision. Over the next few minutes, she endeavored to read it, though the words swam before her eyes—not due to how much she had had to drink, but because it was a long and convoluted mash up of disjointed terms. What she took from it was the piece was meant to thrust the viewer into considering their own mortality, alone. Cassie tried very hard not to smirk as she read that the huge undertaking of considering your mortality should take apparently no more than three minutes, which is the timeframe visitors to Plum's exhibition would be allowed.

After a while, the assistant came back to collect the paper, and informed Cassie that they would be ready for her shortly. She glanced behind her then, back into the busy, noisy party, but couldn't spot Cameron anywhere in the sea of black men's suits. Once, or twice, she thought she saw him, but then realised she was wrong. Turning back to face the installation, she felt the familiar surge of irritation that she'd felt earlier that day, fanned by Plum's spiriting his all-important self away. She knew she had a thin skin when it came to men not having time for her—her father had set the standard early—but really, why had Cameron brought her to this event only to throw her away at the very door?

As she waited to enter Plum's installation, the glow of several drinks quickly wearing off, Cassie began to feel more and more foolish as each second ticked by. The reason Cameron had ditched her at the door was obvious. She was not important. Not like Plum. Not like Plum's investors. She was simply . . . well, the muse. Someone who, for a fleeting moment in time, had captured an artist's attention. She had only provided the inspiration for something that would most likely be a bigger, better, more important, more
alive
version of herself, even if it was inanimate and made of some sort of waxy plastic.

Taking a deep breath in the hope of composing herself, Cassie wished Alys were here. Alys would be in heaven—art investors, Plum, Cameron, and surely all other kinds of interesting people besides. And while she knew she would be able to introduce Alys to all these people after she was finished sitting for Cameron, she longed to have her by her side right now. Especially as she knew Alys would have loved to laugh along with her about that three-minute time limit—Cassie knew she wasn't really a fan of Plum's work either.